There were a few articles here, a write-up there, but nothing like he could find on previous winners. There was a clear trajectory for all champions ofWinner Bakes All. Tiffany Fletcher was a bestselling cookbook author. Michael Aayomi had his own network TV show. Sara Cleaver was a personal pastry chef to the freakin’ Prime Minister.
After he’d finished reading all he could read about her win, he stewed over the unfairness of the whole situation. When the movie end credits rolled, the room was left in darkness. He remained seated and made no move to wake up Retta, but she did anyway minutes later. Her hair was in its natural curly state fastened into a puff, and it had shifted off-center while she’d slept.
“How long have I been out?” she asked, unfolding her body from the armchair.
“The movie is done,” he said, watching her silhouette as she leisurely raised her hands above her head.
She snorted. “Well, damn. I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine,” he said before coughing to clear the gruffness from his voice.
“I didn’t fall asleep because I thought it was boring. The fifteen minutes I saw? Perfection,” she said, picking up the dirty plates from the coffee table.
As she walked into the kitchen, he was still so caught up in his thoughts that he didn’t hear Retta’s question until she asked it for the second time. “Do you want a donut to-go —”
“Did you get the prize money?”
She paused and studied him. “Are you still thinking about that?”
“You deserved that money. You deserved that moment in the sun.”
“I don’t know,” she said, laughing a bit. “I’ve always really enjoyed rainy days.”
Duncan didn’t react to her attempt at a joke, and she pushed up her glasses with her knuckles and sighed.
“I got my prize money and paid off a bunch of debt from school and opened Dutch.”
The tension around his neck and shoulders eased a bit. “Good.” He still wished that she could’ve seen more success.
“Do you want that donut now?” she asked, moving through the kitchen. She opened a cabinet and even with her height failed to reach the Tupperware stored on the top shelf. Before he could offer to get it for her, she hoisted herself up on her counter.
Automatically, he was behind her, poised to catch her if she made the wrong move. “Careful.”
“I’m fine,” she said, twisting to grab the containers she desired.
When she returned to the ground, they were standing close to each other. So much so he caught the subtle fragrance she wore. He wondered where she applied it. Her wrists? The back of her neck? Maybe between her breasts.
Her eyes widened as she looked at him in his face. “A-also, you can take the rest of the pizza. You saw my fridge. I have no space.”
“You should get a step stool,” he said.
“I know.”
This was the moment she’d make a move to the counter with the donuts or he’d step out of her way, but they both remained planted in their spots. The longer they stood there, the more details he took note of—like the rise and fall of her chest and the way she stared at his mouth.
Duncan took a shallow breath. “If you keep looking at me like that, we’re gonna be in trouble, and we don’t want that.”
There was a beat of silence before she looked into his eyes and asked, “No?”
And that was it.
He descended on her lips like they were his source of life. They were warm and soft and perfectly fit against his. Dropping the containers in her hands, she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him farther into her body. Her tongue, delicate and polite at first, stoked a fire in him, and he cupped either side of her face, trying to preserve the tenderness that wanted to fade in favor of an urgent forcefulness. But his efforts proved futile the second she moaned into his mouth.
Everything in Retta’s body was operating in service of Duncan’s touch. She hadn’t meant for this date to unfold this way, but while she was here, maybe she could indulge a little. His lips were demanding and hot.
Every time his tongue met hers, heat would unfurl and she’d press herself closer to him. The grip he had on her hips was almost painful, and her breaths were coming in the moments when he’d break their kiss to run his lips against her jaw or neck.
Her hands skimmed his body as she tried to find the best place to settle them. But she was convinced the man wasn’t made of flesh but of warm marble. When she finally slipped her hand underneath his shirt, the muscles she found there twitched under her touch.
